


the romance of wolves is nothing like those told in the stars.

by asthepoetssay (badaltin)



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Consensual Underage Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Good Guy Hector, High School, Long, Long Shot, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partying, Romance, Spin the Bottle, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, artist Patroclus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:26:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5782690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/asthepoetssay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus moves back to his hometown and finds a friend in the sportsman Hector and his people, and is reunited with his childhood accomplice, Achilles. But Patroclus's voice shies away in public, his courage is not found in crowds, and up until this point, he has only put his heart into his artwork.</p><p>Love is a tricky, fickle concept to him. He soon finds that it can sprout in the most unlikely of places, and can grow from virtually nothing. It's tender like the flesh of a fig, but can rip a man to shreds in the blink of an eye. Patroclus loses himself in it quicker than a thief in the night. Though he has heard fairy tales all his life about the figures in the sky's constellations, the romance of wolves is nothing like those told in the stars.</p><p>Maybe he can find himself again.</p><p>[ 11-27-16 edit: I'm picking this story back up along with my other 'The Song of Achilles' one, so please stay tuned for both. Updates to come soon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, we're in this for the long haul, just warning you. But I have the entire story planned out and written down, so this is going to be finished. Endgame Patrochilles, don't worry.

Patroclus woke to a strangled cry that he belatedly realized came from himself. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, waves of exhaustion tumbling over him like a train on fire. He tried to think back to what he was dreaming about, but could only pull up a pair of jade eyes from his straining thoughts. Patroclus shivered.

Not a second later, his alarm went off, and his mother popped her head into his room. “Good, you’re up,” she said, the light outside silhouetting her thin frame. “You know, Patroclus, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, like another school’s gonna accept me after what I did.” He was bitter, and groggy, and just wanted to go back to sleep. But he didn’t.

“I’ll let you take the first shower,” his mother said, and she closed the door behind her.

.

He had painted his ceiling two years ago in constellations overtop a bruise-colored universe. It had taken quite a bit of effort to accomplish, trying not to let the paint drip onto the carpet, craning his neck, and constantly having to step down from the ladder to see more clearly. _But it was all worth it_ , he thought.

Now, right before the start of his junior year of high school, Patroclus was lying on his bed, palms facing the artificial heavens, eyes caught in the delicate brushstrokes of the starry night he created. If only he could just stay there, mesmerized for the rest of eternity, then maybe he’d be happy. Maybe.

.

He took too long getting dressed, humming and hawing at each decision like he was locked in a fierce chess battle. Finally, he decided on a white button-up and khakis, and after failing to flatten his flyaway hair, he ran down the stairs and shoved a hot dog bun into his mouth before sprinting outside and jumping into his mother’s sedan.

She turned on the radio, and put the car into drive. She sang along to the bubblegum-like lyrics, her voice filling the small space like stuffy air on a hot day, but not in an unpleasant way.

When they arrived at the school, she turned to him with an apologetic expression. “Sorry, honey, but I work tonight. You’ll have to walk home, or find a ride.”

 _Like hell he’ll find a ride_ , he thought. But he walked past a throng of anxious freshman, and into the building.

.

“And that’s the art wing, where all the art classes are held,” the girl, Briseis, claimed. “I’d avoid one of the teachers. The bald one with the beady eyes? Yeah, don’t go near him.”

She was a nice girl, Patroclus thought, though he pitied her; she didn’t deserve to be stuck with the grunt work of giving the new kid a tour of the school. Briseis was bright, both physically and mentally, with clever eyes and kinky hair and delicate fingers that could probably crush his windpipe if she were so inclined. He wondered how she was selected for this job.

“And that’s about it. Now, Patroclus, if you have any questions, I help out in the main office before school, so come talk to me.”

The first bell rang, and Patroclus’s stomach dropped. He wanted to climb into his backpack and have someone throw him out into the middle of the highway. He looked up, and saw Briseis walking away to her class, and he felt excruciatingly lonely. He swallowed thickly, and followed the current of moving bodies into the English wing.

As one of the first students in the room, Patroclus was able to choose a seat near the back of the classroom, where it was impossible for him to be in anyone’s way. He put his backpack next to his chair, and buried his head in his arms on top of his desk.

There was a rustling, slight chatter, and the sound of a chair being pulled out next to him. He looked up blearily, and to his dismay, saw a curly-haired boy sit down next to him.

“Hello,” the boy greeted, his eyes deep-set and candid. “You must be new; I haven’t seen you before. Transfer from a different school?”

Patroclus nodded mutely.

“I’m Hector, by the way. What should I call you?”

“Patroclus,” the smaller of the two said, sitting up in his seat. “Hello, Hector.”

Hector smiled, and something rolled around in Patroclus’s gut; he wondered if this Hector had any setting other than genuine or friendly. “Well, Patroclus, welcome to Troy High School.”

.

They met again at lunch. Patroclus had only stood in the cafeteria for a moment before he saw Hector hailing him over to a table on the outskirts of the room. A few girls came and sat down with them, one of them Patroclus recognized as Briseis.

“Oh Patroclus!” she said, sitting on his other side. “I see you’ve met Hector.”

Hector raised his fork in agreement, swallowing around the pasta salad he had displayed in front of him. “We sit next to each other in English.”

Lunch was a nice, calm time, and Patroclus was happy to sit back and listen to the others talk about nothing for thirty minutes. Hector, interestingly enough, remained quiet throughout most of it. During the last ten minutes of the period, though, he leaned over and whispered something into Patroclus’s ear. “These girls are going to give me a run for my money this year,” he conspired, his teeth glinting, lips pulled back in a grin. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Patroclus responded, that rolly-polly-feeling taking over his nerves. “I know what you mean.”

Talking with Hector was easier after that, like Patroclus had stepped over a fence and was on the greener side of the pasture.

Hector followed Patroclus to his locker after lunch. “Oh, here’s some other kids from the cross country team. They also do track in the spring…” Blood pounded in Patroclus’s ears, and he couldn’t hear the rest of what Hector was saying.

 _Achilles_.

Dammit, Patroclus forgot that Achilles was going to be here. Or, rather, he neglected to think about it. But now they were both in the same hallway, and oh God, Patroclus couldn’t help but stare, and Hector had stopped talking by now, and all the other boys were looking at him strangely, and Achilles decided in that instant that it was a good time to look up from his phone.

His eyes widened and fogged over, green like freshly-cut grass, or light shining through oak leaves, different chords of the same tune. “Patroclus?” he asked, sounding like the delicate brushing of a soft breeze over a dandelion, seeds spilling out into the syllables.

“Achilles,” Patroclus breathed in response, his heart skipping a beat.

Hector looked between the two of them, the cousin of disappointment flooding his face – though masked well. “You know each other?” he asked, not really a question. Neither responded at first, because _yes_ they knew each other, but it was so much more than that.

“Yeah,” Achilles said eventually. “Er, we knew each other as kids.”

There was a pregnant pause in the air as the boys digested this, and Patroclus used this opportunity to his advantage. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

“Wait!” he heard Achilles cry out, but he slipped through the crowd of students with the dexterity of someone used to being invisible all of his life. He sped down the halls and somehow, some God above managed to steer him into his Chemistry class.

 _Don’t think about him_ , Patroclus told himself as he was submerged in his teacher’s safety-precaution lecture. _Don’t think about him, don’t think about him, whatever you do,_ don’t think about him.

.

Hector was waiting for him outside the classroom, concern etched across his dark face. “Are you alright? Did something happen between you two that I should know about?”

 _Please un-ask that question_ , Patroclus begged with his eyes.

Hector took the hint in stride, and jerked his head towards the hall. “Oh, sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.” Patroclus was never happier to find a friend in someone so quiet and trusting as he was in that moment.

Their next class was an art elective, which they shared together. The school was fairly small, as many of the teenagers their age went instead to the private school their town hosted. This made the atmosphere more intimate, gave kids a better chance of sharing classes with their friends.

Their teacher understood that the students wanted nothing more than to get their hands dirty, so he gave a curt speech about rules and how to properly put the paint away, and then set them loose with a one-day assignment – to draw a portrait of what the teenagers thought they were, without using mirrors or pictures.

Patroclus was so focused on his work that he didn’t notice Hector watching him until the other boy’s hand came down softly on his shoulder.

“Wow,” he whispered, honest incredulity spreading across his features. “I didn’t know you were this good at art, Patroclus.”

The boy in question blushed, and glanced down at his paper. He had chosen to do an ink wash, sketching out the ceiling in his room in black before going over it with white stars and an outline of his figure.

“I think that’s incredible.”

“It’s just a silly painting,” Patroclus replied, trying his best to ignore the look in Hector’s eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he threw back, nodding to the realistic self-portrait before the other teenager.

Hector laughed at this, a deep, bell-like noise that sounded beautiful to Patroclus’s ears. Maybe he’d work hard to hear it again.

.

They were walking in the parking lot when Patroclus heard the familiar beating of feet upon pavement, recognizable after all those years spent apart.

It was Achilles – it was always Achilles. “Hey – Patroclus,” he said, and Hector bristled, as if Patroclus was someone to protect.

Achilles’s brow furrowed. “Why’re you walking with Hector?” he asked bluntly.

“He offered me a ride home,” Patroclus said stiffly. “And I accepted.”

“Huh.” Achilles scratched his head, the golden curls atop his scalp catching in the light of the sun. “You still have the same number, right? Would you like to set up a carpool?”

“Sure.”

Achilles stood there for a beat, uncertain for seemingly the first time in his young life. There was nothing left to say, what with the gaping canyon dug between them, and so the athlete left.

Hector side-eyed Patroclus, and Patroclus shrugged. “We share history. It’s hard to explain.”

Hector took him home after that, and Patroclus shuffled up to his bedroom. He dug out a picture of him and Achilles, two shining boys twinkling at Peleus like stars while he took the photo.

Patroclus hurled the frame across the room, and flinched at the sound it made hitting the wall. He fell back against his comforter, and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter was a little bit rushed, mainly because it's been too long since I've posted anything and that it's primarily a filler chapter. The next part will be up very soon, I promise!

The sky was a sad gray, the color of regret and things unsaid. Patroclus was the only boy in the world in that moment, his feet barely skimming the ground in an imitation-caress that made him appear to drift, as if in a dream. He stopped, eventually, at the end of his lawn and glanced down at the asphalt. It looked like static to him, the static that filled his brain and turned his thoughts to mush.

Nothing is as it was said to be, he knew. It was true of him, it was true of the horizon with its trees and houses and telephone wires, it was true of the people he was about to greet and talk to.

The spell broke, after a time, when his mother called out to him. “Patroclus!” she said, the crow’s feet at her eyes stark against the darkness of her skin. “It’s time for school. Get in the car!”

No, he realized, things weren’t as they appeared. Him least of all.

But that was irrelevant. It was time to go to school, after all, and he had been practicing his poker-face.

.

Patroclus looked down at his desk, surprised to see a neatly-folded piece of paper sitting atop one of his folders. He looked to his right, and noticed Hector watching him, eyes expectantly appraising him. Patroclus unfolded the note, finding mostly negative space with a little scrawl of words written at the top; it was obvious that Hector wanted to keep up a conversation while their instructor lectured.

“Would you believe the quality of the teaching around here? It’s deplorable,” said Hector in quick, slanted letters.

Patroclus stared dumbly at the paper. It was not like anyone had ever written him a note before, he thought to himself. Eventually, after feeling the weight of Hector’s steady gaze, he grabbed his pencil and scribbled out a response before erasing it and writing a new one.

“I’ve had worse.”

Patroclus’s hand darted across the space between them, and deposited the note onto Hector’s desk. Not twenty seconds later, there was a response.

“Really? Do tell.”

They kept up a constant stream of replies, until they ran out of room on the notebook paper. Then, Patroclus got out his sketchbook, and tore off a sheet from it. Things slowly devolved into drawing outlandish cartoons of their friends, including a shark-toothed Briseis and a sparkle-haired Helen.

Patroclus even smiled once or twice.

.

History class passed slowly, especially once Patroclus noticed that Achilles sat behind him. He felt the steadiness of the other boy’s gaze up until the bell rung, and once Patroclus was at the door, a hand stopped him from leaving. They regarded one another, the two of them breathing the same air, until Patroclus took the moment crashing down with his own pathetic speech. “Achilles, I gotta get to class.”

The next period wasn’t so bad. It was study hall in the cafeteria, and Patroclus didn’t even get a chance to pity himself for his loneliness before he spotted Briseis quickly waving him over.

“Hey, Pat!” she called, moving over her backpack to give him a space to sit. “How are you doing?”

Patroclus shrugged, like he was bound to do, and sat himself down in the proffered spot.

“So,” Briseis began, a smile dawning on her lips. “I see you’ve become buddies with Hector, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“Oh, don’t play that game with me,” she admonished, lightly smacking him on the shoulder. “Y’know, Hector doesn’t normally latch onto people this quickly. That must make you special.”

Patroclus felt something stir in his stomach even as he questioned it. “Special? Please.”

“Yes, special, princess. It could be a good thing! Or not,” she trailed off, her eyes distant. “Not that I don’t love Hector of course!” she remedied. “He’s a good friend of mine, but… How’s Achilles?”

Patroclus chocked on air, gulping like a beached shark. “What would – why would you like I’d know how he’s doing?” Patroclus asked, his heart hammering in his chest.

“I mean, the rumor mill’s been turning up some good stuff about the two of you.” Briseis winked.

Patroclus shook his head in denial, and turned to his notebook to doodle. Briseis realized that she might have pressed a little too far, and let him be.

He could learn to like her, he thought to himself.

.

At the end of the day, Patroclus looked up from his locker to find that he had been cornered by Achilles and Hector. Gold and Bronze. Past and Present. One eager, one patient. Two sets of eyes wandering over Patroclus, like he was something new, something shiny.

They became aware that they weren’t alone in their pursuit to talk to Patroclus; they fixed each other with an adversarial gaze, Hector’s calm and steady and Achilles’s uneasy and quizzical.

“Hello, Hector,” Achilles greeted, moving his body so that he was facing the other boy, while standing protectively – possessively – in front of Patroclus. “I just thought I’d take Patroclus home today, seeing as how you did it yesterday. Don’t want to make you go out of your way twice, right?”

Hector stared resolutely back, his lips never wavering. “I thought I was going to take Patroclus home. It’s really no trouble, and I know how to get there from here.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve known him since we were kids, and we don’t live that far apart.”

“It’s okay, Achilles, I got this.”

“No, I insist.”

Finally, Hector put his foot down. “I don’t know what you plan to do with him, but I intend to study with Patroclus.” That retort ended the thinly-veiled argument. And like Hector said he would, the two of them traveled back to Hector’s house and spent the evening reading up on the future lesson plans for English their teacher had posted online. The rest of the week followed a similar pattern, Patroclus getting used to the mutual silence and respect that built between them during their study time. It was nice, he thought, just enjoying Hector’s company like they had a chance at being friends.

The weekend came around on swift legs, and on Saturday morning, Patroclus got a call from someone that wasn’t his mother.

“Hey!” Achilles greeted, his voice heavy over the receiver. “Mind if I come over? We need to catch up!”

Patroclus’s whole body tensed, coiled like a spring. But what was the use? He was going to have to stop avoiding Achilles eventually, so why not now? “You can come over,” he said.

Ten minutes later, Achilles showed up in Patroclus’s driveway with his stupid car. Patroclus opened the door, and was quickly enveloped in a tight hug. He went stiff like a board, just for a second, before he allowed himself to relax. This was Achilles, his childhood best friend. He would know him anywhere; he would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. He would know him in death, at the end of the world. That was the simple truth, one Patroclus could no longer ignore. He buried his nose into the crook of Achilles’s neck, and inhaled deeply, memorizing that scent that was pure and haunted his dreams from time to time.

Eventually, Achilles pulled away to hold his friend at arm’s length, his jade eyes mapping the slopes of Patroclus’s face. “Where’s your mother?” The blond one asked, his voice soft like a gentle summer rain.

“She’s not here,” came the response, a little harsher, a little more human.

Achilles nodded, and looked beyond Patroclus. He took in the house, familiar to him yet strange after two years of not being inside it. Certainly it looked different, now that he had grown and was seeing it from the vantage point of an almost-adult, and not that of a child. He walked around Patroclus, and gracefully took to the stairs. Patroclus followed.

Achilles didn’t bother with any of the other rooms, instead choosing to make a beeline for his friend’s. The painted ceiling was still there, twinkling with stars as always, and even though the furniture was in a similar place as it had always been, it appeared smaller.

Achilles flopped onto the bed, eyes closed, and the question left his lips before his body had even settled. “When did you guys move back?”

“Just a week ago,” Patroclus replied, sitting himself on the edge of the mattress. “We did it in time for the school year to start.”

Achilles nodded. Patroclus felt something vibrate, and saw his friend pull out his ringing cellphone. Achilles scrunched up his face in distaste, assumedly at the caller ID. He ran a finely-boned hand through his hair, and sat up with a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Patroclus asked.

“It’s Deidameia. She’s been trying to hook up with me for ages, but I want nothing to do with her.”

Patroclus felt something stir inside him. He wasn’t in his bedroom anymore – he saw flashes of sun-kissed shoulders, the smell of sea salt on the wind, and the feeling of Achilles’s lips against his own. He shook his head to clear it, and without thinking, wondered aloud, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

They ended up wandering the neighborhood after that, and it was just like old times, except that there was this gaping wound open between the two of them that only Patroclus could see.

And it hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to leave a comment!


	3. Chapter 3

Things fell into an easy rhythm for Patroclus, as late summer bled into fall, into chilly November. He would spend his time at school chatting with Hector in English, lunch, and his art elective, Achilles during History and when he was a library aid, and then with Briseis during their study hall and lunch period. Weekdays at Hector’s found the two boys studying and drawing together, with an occasional movie thrown into the mix. Patroclus spent the weekends with Achilles, the both of them always finding something to do whether that was fishing, going on walks, reading, driving, or simply talking.

What really struck Patroclus, though, was that he could actually say that he was happy. He had friends. He had Achilles back, and discovered someone new in Hector. He could converse with Briseis whenever he wanted. The girls at their lunch table treated him like they had known him since they were babies. The cross country team accepted him when he’d stay after school to watch Achilles and Hector practice. Everything was going fine for Patroclus, for the first time in his life.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

.

“So,” Briseis began, leaning forward and resting her chin on one hand, eyes gleaming like a cat about to pounce. “What’s it like to have two love interests? It’s as if you’re in the middle of a shitty chick-flick.”

Patroclus blushed. He didn’t answer – instead, he tried his best to pretend that he didn’t hear her, continuing to work on his homework.

Briseis sat back in her chair, her mouth dropping open slowly. “Holy shit. Oh my God, Patroclus, which one do you like? Or do you like both of them?”

Patroclus felt his ears heating up, and just as he was about to throw back some half-witty remark in an attempt to save his hide, the bell rang and signaled the end of their study hall. He stood up and gathered his things, ignoring Briseis’s call: “You’ve gotta tell me, Pat! Come on!”

He brushed past her, though he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.

.

It was after one of the last running practices that Achilles approached Patroclus. The latter boy buried his mouth beneath the neckline of his sweater, breathing hot air against his chest to try and warm himself. Achilles, the asshole that he was, only wore sweats and a t-shirt. He laughed when he saw his counterpart.

“That will only make you colder,” Achilles said as he sat down next to Patroclus. Despite the sweaty state of his friend, Patroclus didn’t mind the proximity. He chuckled lightly, enjoying the heat that radiated off of Achilles. “Hey,” the golden-haired boy started, “would you like to come to a party tonight? I know it’s kind of last minute, but Meneleus didn’t tell me until this morning and I’d like to bring you with me.”

 _Why the hell not?_ Patroclus asked himself, realizing that he hadn’t gone to a party before. “Sure,” he replied, feeling brazen after a couple months of having things go his way. Nothing could go wrong, he thought, naively.

Achilles dropped Patroclus off at his house so he could get ready, and a few hours later, Achilles was back and ringing his door.

Patroclus came down the stairs, and saw that his mother was getting ready to leave. “Where are you going, honey?” she asked, the question evident in the furrow of her brows.

“Just to a party, mom.”

Her smile was absolutely dazzling, her pride in Patroclus clear for all the world to see. “Is Achilles taking you?”

He nodded.

“Well,” she said, bringing him in to kiss him on the forehead, “I hope you have a good time. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Patroclus allowed the slightest of grins to pass over his face. “Okay, mom. Bye.” He shrugged on a jacket, and stepped outside before wandering over to Achilles’s car.

Achilles beamed at him. “Let’s go!” he said, before pulling out of the driveway.

.

There were many people from school whom Patroclus knew at Meneleus’s house, and some that he didn’t. He almost found time to be upset that Hector wasn't there, but he was quickly swallowed up by the steady thrum of the party. Achilles grabbed his hand and swerved through the throng of moving bodies towards the kitchen, and selected two cups of spiked punch for them to drink. Patroclus looked at the dark liquid in his hand, before closing his eyes and downing the entire thing in one go. He came up sputtering, much to Achilles’s bemusement.

“Damn, Patroclus!” he cheered. “Let’s get you another one.”

Achilles spent the first hour doing introductions, but once he saw the discomfort on his friend’s face, he led Patroclus to a quiet corner with a velvet loveseat that was occupied by a couple busy making-out. Achilles shoed them away, and sat down on one side. Patroclus, emboldened by the liquor he had drunk, settled himself horizontally over the couch, so that his legs splayed out over Achilles’s lap. The other boy smiled like the sun was behind his teeth, and took a sip from his drink.

Patroclus could feel something warm working its way through his veins, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was here, with Achilles, relaxing and talking rather intimately while the world continued to spin around him. Everything was right, he realized. Nothing could bring him down from this high.

With his back to the arm of the loveseat, Patroclus and Achilles talked passionately about their own lives, and of old days before Patroclus moved away. The air between them was short and charged with something big, something meaningful, and Patroclus wanted to close the distance. He wanted it with all of his being, and before he could do anything about it, he was being picked up by the object of his affection, bridal-style, and led towards a small circle of people sitting on the floor in another room.

Patroclus let himself be handled, shooting Achilles a look that caused the other boy to giggle. They eventually settled themselves on the edge of the circle, next to several of their friends. An empty wine bottle was placed in the center, like a holy object ready to be worshipped.

Patroclus found the proceedings to be interesting. Deidameia kept taking turns, sending hopeful looks Achilles’s way, and instead the bottle landed on someone like Cassandra, who kept whispering in people’s ears about who was going to be selected.

Eventually, though, it was Patroclus’s time to spin. Ajax clapped him on the back, rather heavily in his drunken state, and Patroclus span the bottle. It whipped around on the hardwood floor, a blur of translucent light in the dim room. Cassandra said, a little too loudly to be a murmur, “Achilles,” and the bottle slowed. She was not wrong in her guess.

Patroclus could feel his cheeks flame in embarrassment, and the entire group cheered like their favorite team had just scored a touchdown. He looked up and saw a pair of green eyes watching him, something like wonder dawning behind them.

If he had not drunken as much as he had, Patroclus would have never kissed Achilles. But there they were, the lips against his almost familiar as it was the second time in their lives that they had met in such a way. Patroclus opened his eyes just fractionally, just to see the look on Achilles’s face, and the bald horror he saw had him up and out the door, phone in hand, calling Hector.

“Wait!” he heard Achilles cry, but he pushed it to the back of his head, storming out to the curb of the road. Half of the party followed him outside, he belatedly realized, Achilles at the front while Helen and Iphigenia tried desperately to pull him back towards the house. “Patroclus, I’m sorry! Wait one second!”

The line clicked, signaling that Hector had picked up, but Patroclus didn’t care. A lion’s voice roared up inside of him, and it spilled out over his tongue like poison. “No, fuck you, Achilles. You can go fuck yourself. I’m done! Whatever this is,” he screamed, motioning between the two of them, “it’s over. It ended when I left the first time! I don’t want to hear what you have to say. Just leave me the HELL alone!”

The bitter wind cut at his skin, and he shakily raised the cellphone back to his ear. “Where are you?” Hector questioned, rough and deep over the receiver. “Let me come pick you up.”

“Please come and get me,” Patroclus whimpered, and he felt like the earth was shattering beneath his feet. Achilles was crying, disgusting sobs wracking his entire frame. He was fucking crying; he was so far gone that he allowed himself to be pulled back into the party, a rag doll yanked away by the hands of impatient children.

Patroclus stood outside for what felt like an eternity, watching the terrible wind tear at the near-black blades of grass. A few streetlamps were turned on, stark orange light broadcasting the illusion of safety and comfort. He stayed where he was, and waited, shivering for his Hector to come pick him up.

When Hector’s car finally pulled in, Patroclus lunged for the door and wrenched it open, sitting himself down on the leather seat. He was hiccupping; he’d had too much to drink. The heat blasted through the vents, shocking his chilled skin. Patroclus was surprised his flesh didn’t crack open. He felt like everything had cracked open, himself most of all. But he stared at his trembling hands, and saw with disappointment that they were still in-tact.

The car jerked beneath him, and sped off down the road. When they had gotten a fair distance away, Hector pulled the car over to the side of the road and surprised Patroclus by grabbing him and dragging him into a tight hug.

Patroclus’s eyes widened, and he buried himself in Hector’s warmth.

Eventually, Hector pulled himself away, something burning behind his eyes, and he grit out, “What happened?”

“Achilles is an asshole.”

Hector gazed at him with anger and concern lacing his features, before saying something tinged with regret: “did he force himself on you?”

Patroclus coughed roughly, and was quick to put things straight. “Oh man no, it’s not like that.” He spat out everything that had transpired, and after, Hector was silent, glaring over the steering wheel into the night.

“I am going to kill him,” he said calmly, almost obscene with how level it was. “I will rip his throat out.”

Patroclus slid down in his seat, his shirt riding up his stomach, and he caught the brief flash of hunger on Hector’s face. Something possessed Patroclus; he leaned his head back, baring his neck, and he wondered, “Would you have kept kissing me?”

Hector was trying so hard to be a good guy, and Patroclus knew this. “Patroclus, you’re drunk, and I’m pretty sure you feel at least something for him-“ he dare not say Achilles’s name “-otherwise you wouldn’t be upset, so please, let’s make these decisions when we’re both of sound mind and body.”

Boy, he was drunk, Patroclus thought. He was so glad to have Hector to take him home. He felt a wave of affection pass through him for the taller teenager, and he heard him distantly say, “Please stop looking at me like that.”

The last thing Patroclus remembered was asking himself what it would be like to kiss Hector.


	4. Chapter 4

The official cause of Patroclus’s death came in the form of his phone ringing the next morning. He mumbled something incoherently, and almost cried at the steady throbbing of his brain trapped behind his skull; he rubbed his eyes, and tried to ignore it. _Alcohol sucks_ , he thought, straining to see the caller ID on his cell. He answered it, and put it on speaker.

“Briseis?”

“What happened at the party?” she asked, accusation oozing from each word. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Patroclus groaned as a wave of nausea wracked his body. He blinked owlishly, and hid his face. “Just ask Helen about it. I don’t want to talk right now,” he replied to his pillow.

“Are you hung over?” her voice crackled over the receiver, a shade too loud for Patroclus’s liking. He hissed, and tenderly massaged his neck.

“A little bit, and could you please talk quieter?”

“Not until you tell me what happened.”

“Ugh. Ask Helen. I gotta go.” He hung up, and went back to sleep.

Time passed in different universes of gray and green and brown, a swirling shift not unlike the gradual change in the sky from night to day to twilight. Stars shone throughout, in tiny pinpricks of light. He slept without concern or thought until he was startled back into the realm of the waking by his cellphone ringing, yet again.

Patroclus gazed down at the rattling thing like it offended him, and almost hurled at the name that appeared. He hung up.

People of a varying sort continued to call him throughout the morning and afternoon, and Patroclus ignored them all. His mother was working all throughout that weekend, and without anyone there to tell him otherwise, he stayed in bed most of Saturday.

Sunday, though, he woke in a ray of sunshine and saw that Hector was calling him.

“Hector?” Patroclus asked after picking up, holding the cell phone to his ear. Hangover abated, he sat up in bed and scratched the light stubble that was growing on his chin.

“Hey, are you feeling better?” Hector inquired in docile tones, soothing Patroclus into relaxing back against his comforter. “How are you doing? You didn’t answer my calls yesterday, and I was worried.”

Patroclus felt a kind smile drift across his face at the same ambling pace of a gentle summer breeze. “I’m fine, Hector. I was just suffering from what I drank on Friday.” He was embarrassed; he had not forgotten how drunk he was, nor what he had said in Hector’s car.

“Let me come over,” Hector pleaded, voice simple and without malice.

“Shit – let me take a shower and stuff. Come over in twenty minutes.”

.

Later, after Patroclus had thoroughly scrubbed his skin until it burned, he opened the door to Hector.

They didn’t really talk much, at first. The house was silent except for the gliding of their pens over their respective sketchbooks. Patroclus could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, and felt Hector’s exhales from next to him.

While Hector drew Patroclus, Patroclus drew Achilles. It was a blurry image, especially when the dollar-store ink smudged over Patroclus’s fingers. It was uncertain, but Patroclus blamed it on the medium. The drawing itself was of gray skies at dawn, Achilles in the center at three-quarter view, looking up as if he had been disturbed out of some faraway dream. He was lost in the picture, until he sensed movement from Hector.

“I don’t like this,” the taller boy stated, looking down at his sketch of Patroclus.

 _How absurd_ , thought Patroclus. He almost voiced what he was thinking, but held himself back. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the sketch – actually, it managed to capture some of the light that Patroclus didn’t know he possessed. He knew that Hector was building up for something because he rarely said anything without meaning.

“Could you draw me?” Hector asked, his dark eyes meeting Patroclus’s. There was a twinkle there, something akin to defiance or rebellion – rebellion of what, though, Patroclus wasn’t sure of.

Instead of answering, Patroclus beckoned with his hand for Hector to follow him. He went into the laundry room and grabbed a pure white bedsheet. He draped it over a hideous couch in the front room, where the afternoon could spill in from the bay windows. Patroclus adjusted the cloth so that the sunlight caught it in enough places to greatly contrast the shadowed folds.

“Lay here,” Patroclus ordered, and Hector sat down. Patroclus almost chocked on his own tongue once Hector pulled his t-shirt up over his head and spread himself out across the sheet. It was obvious that he had done this before.

“This okay?” he asked, as if it was okay; as if Patroclus wasn’t slowly falling to pieces right before him. He rested his arm against the cushions, splayed out like a tragic hero. Hector’s tanned chest rose and fell with his breaths; he never stopped watching Patroclus.

Patroclus brought out his easel along with a clean piece of toned paper, and began his work. He scratched away at the brown surface, using his black and white charcoals, and he produced something fantastically beautiful. And ancient god was unveiled, bathed in light like rivers of gold, power emanating from the regal figure.

 _It was right_ , Patroclus decided, _like Hector_.

.

“Hector, I’m finished.” Patroclus stood up, and brushed off the charcoal dust from his hands onto his pants. “Come look.”

Hector stood up slowly, and threw his arms back in a stretch, stifling a yawn. Patroclus’s eyes trailed the movement, and he realized that he was slowly gravitating towards the other boy.

Hector moved across the space in three strides of his long legs, and stopped when he saw the drawing. “This is…” he wondered. “This is me?” It was barely a whisper, a murmur from one deity to another across a vast ocean of doubt. Hector praised the picture like it was something holy, something to be cherished and loved and not like something Patroclus had drawn.

Patroclus wanted. He wanted everything, he wanted Hector, more than he knew was reasonable or was good. But he didn’t care.

Patroclus turned to face Hector fully, and crowded in towards him. He followed as Hector backed up until his spine met with the wall in a solid caress. Hector stilled, eyes roving over the planes of Patroclus’s face. “Hector,” Patroclus breathed, a distant voice on the wind. “I want this. I really do.”

There was desire in Hector, plain as day. “Are you sure?” he asked, straining against the visible urge to close the distance between them. “Because you can’t un-do what you plan on doing, Patroclus.”

Patroclus closed his eyes, and took in the sound of his own name on Hector’s tongue.

He dove in. It was harsh, at first, the kiss; Patroclus was too eager, too scared of Hector running away. But then Hector sighed, and kissed back, his hands coming around to cradle Patroclus’s hip and jaw. The taller of the two pressed into it, squeezing the arm on Patroclus’s hip gently, gently, gently, until Patroclus was leaning into it, closed-eyed and beautiful.

This was all that Patroclus had really desired, he thought. Someone to be tender with. They were like children, in their exploration of the slopes of each other’s body while consistently connected at the mouth. Hector’s lips were soft, Patroclus discovered. Soft on his own chapped ones.

Patroclus pulled back, only to regard Hector from between his palms. Hector was a gorgeous boy, and Patroclus held him like he was a fish, about to slip from beneath his grasp.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hector mouthed against the space where Patroclus’s thumb met his wrist. “I’m staying right here.”

Patroclus responded by drawing Hector back in, and they were frozen in time.


End file.
